


Cocoa, Interrupted

by RembrandtsWife



Series: Sherlolly Lite [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Hair, Hot Chocolate, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:25:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4926751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's eyes suddenly narrowed. "You've cut your hair."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cocoa, Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to [dietplainlite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietplainlite/pseuds/dietplainlite) for mentioning on Tumblr that Loo Brealey had cut and colored her hair. Lookin' good, Loo.
> 
> I am [rembrandtswife](http://rembrandtswife.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, and I never quite know what pairing I'm going to write next.

It had been an unusually wet and chilly day even for London in October. All Molly Hooper was thinking about, as she headed back to her shared flat from the day's errand, was getting into her pyjamas and curling up with a book and a mug of hot cocoa.

All her flatmate was thinking about, apparently, was the experiment he was conducting at the kitchen table. She didn't even have a sigh to suppress at the sight of assorted chemicals threatening their eating space, nor did the bloody liver in the fridge (not for consumption) deter her from getting milk for her cocoa.

She had changed her clothes, heated the milk (without burning it, hurrah), whisked in the chocolate, and fetched a battered paperback novel from the bedside before her flatmate took notice of her and began telling her about his experiment. He followed her into the living room and suddenly darted in front of her, eyes narrowed.

"You've cut your hair."

The tone of voice in which he said this was roughly the same tone that most men would use for something like, "You put arsenic in my tea," or, "There's blood all over your coat." That Sherlock would use that tone to accuse her of a haircut was simply Sherlock Holmes, all over.

"Yes, I did." She tossed her freshly cut and coiffed hair a bit and sat down with her cup of cocoa.

She picked up her book and feigned surprise when Sherlock's pale, accusing eyes glared over it, like an offended cat's. He was actually crouching on the floor at her feet. "And you've colored it, too."

"Yes, that's right, you *are* the clever detective, aren't you?" He looked so offended that she had to hide her smile behind her cocoa mug. "In fact, I didn't." She waited just long enough for his lips to part and went on, "I paid a professional to do it for me."

Sherlock clenched his jaw with an exasperated look. Molly attempted to resume the adventures of Lord Peter and Harriet Vane, or at least, pretended to resume them.

She had dated a few men who would have been quite forthright about expecting her to consult them before changing her hairstyle and assuming the right to criticize or even veto what she did with her own hair. Sherlock had no doubt assumed that right, not so much on the basis of his being a man, as on the basis of his being Sherlock Holmes. On the other hand, he was also well aware that if he admitted as much, she would simply tell him, "I'm not John Watson. I don't do everything I do to please you."

After a moment she noticed he was still sitting on the floor, clutching his dressing gown across his chest and looking frustrated. She let herself smile a little bit, and he uncoiled to his knees. "May I... may I have a proper look."

"Of course, Sherlock."

Molly put down her book and her mug and let Sherlock draw her to her feet. He led her into the kitchen and switched on the overhead light, positioning her beneath the brightest spot. She stood patiently, head erect, hands in pockets, as he circled her, staring, scowling. Once such scrutiny would have made her quail, had her searching for a comb or lipstick, a quip or a dead body, anything to deflect his attention. She drank it in, now, not flinching when he ran his hands through her hair, combing it with his fingers, fluffing it out. One callused and stained fingertip trailed gently from her temple to her throat. 

"I like it," Sherlock said at last. His voice came out in that soft purr, half an octave deeper than usual, that made her shiver with delight. "It looks lovely."

She closed her eyes. "Thank you." And waited.

The first kiss landed on her temple, where his finger had rested for a moment. The second, on her cheekbone, leaving a little spot of warmth behind. And the third, at the corner of her mouth, followed by a quick, shameless lick at a trace of cocoa left there. 

"Oh, Sherlock."

"Your cocoa will get cold," he said, his lips just brushing her throat. She couldn't hide the resultant shiver.

"I don't care."


End file.
